A Different Call
by Shadowpool95
Summary: The words from the file had already burned themselves into his brain. Name: the Black Widow; Status: High Risk; Termination: Pending.
1. Chapter 1

**Yay! A new story! Like a need another one -_- Ha. But this one wouldn't get out of my head! I guess that's what I get for reading Clintasha fics and Watching the Avengers at the same time. All day.**  
**But not _all_ of this credit can go entirely to me. I mean, most of it can, but I have to give EscapeHollowFieldsClub some of the credit. Like... 12% of the credit. An argument _can_ be made for 15 ;D Anyway, she's my beta-ish person so... MISTAKES ARE ON HER! xD Ha!**

**- Shadow**

**P.S. - I don't read the comics. So don't hate because I have an imagination.**

**Disclaimer: Avengers are not mine. Duh.**

* * *

The words from the file had already burned themselves into his brain.

Name: the Black Widow  
Status: High Risk  
Termination: Pending

...and that was it. Well, except for a grainy picture of a shadowy blur, which was definitely not the best S.H.I.E.L.D. could do. However, Clint Barton was not disappointed. The lack of provided details just meant he'd have to go looking for his own. Which was always entertaining, to say the least.

The archer slid his bow out of its case and slung it onto his back, next to his well-stocked quiver.

He had been called in by his handler with a new mission early yesterday morning. No audience with the Director. No flashy entrance. Not even a pep talk. Agent Coulson had handed him a thin file and a passport, and told him that he was headed to Prague.

Getting there was no problem, thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ready supply of transport. Once there, he scouted out a crappy, nondescript hotel with a free room. Then he did some reconnaissance.

The Black Widow was a rogue assassin. He'd heard rumors of her work through the underground before he teamed with S.H.I.E.L.D., but not many specific details. And not much more came up through his questioning, even though he spent the night in some of the sleaziest bars known to mankind. The only thing that he found, after a bit of bribery, was the location of her next mark. "A tall bloke," the guy told him. "With 'eh goatee. Not much to 'em, but 'e's sure got the ladies 'ight under 'is thumb, dun'he?" There was a gala being held at one of the high-end hotels in the richer part of Prague, and one of its guests had pissed off the wrong people.

So here he was, changing from Clint Barton to Hawkeye with the simple addition of his bow.

Hawkeye headed out, avoiding the streets in favor of the rooftops.

.:.:.:.

Hordes of women passed by, four stories below. Hawkeye was crouched on the top of a building barely a block away from the luxury hotel. He swiftly scanned over each one, fully aware that the Black Widow would be camouflaged in amongst the most posh of them. That is, if her skills were as legendary as her reputation claimed.

_She could be any one of these women,_ Hawkeye thought to himself, running his fingers over the bow he had cradled in his lap. But only one of them had a death wish. And yet, his observations caused him to dismiss almost every woman he came across. That one was too old. As was that one. And she was coloured; the Widow was white. And her? A bit too overweight, if you were to ask him.

It wasn't until halfway through the night, when the flow of arriving guests had decreased to an almost stopping point, that anything happened. A couple exited the hotel via the front door, the woman considerably more drunk than the man. She had long, wavy blonde hair and was sporting a mid-thigh-length, midnight blue dress. Her companion was tall but bland looking, and obviously rich. And he had a goatee. He led her over to the valet, but the woman had something else in mind. She tugged on his arm, saying to him something that Hawkeye could only guess at from this distance. The blond stumbled down the street and the guy quickly followed, laughing.

Hawkeye watched their every move as they brought themselves closer to his vantage point, then right past it. He glanced back at the hotel, then, leaping from roof to roof of the closely-built buildings, followed the pair.

It didn't take long. Three blocks from the hotel, the man became impatient. He told the woman so, motioning back the way they had came. He had a car and could take them anywhere she wanted. Hawkeye, from two stories above them, grimaced. _Yeah,_ he added silently. _Like his bedroom._

The woman offered him a coy smile. She grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him into a dead-end alley while Hawkeye notched an arrow and drew his bow. One wrong move and she was going to become a pin cushion. But he had to be sure it was her.

He watched them, barely breathing. The man had the woman pinned against the wall, his face buried in her neck. He couldn't see her expression, but Hawkeye had a clear view right down the shaft of his arrow. It changed from 'pleasured' to something else entirely with an almost audible 'bang' in less than a second. Hawkeye tensed his arms, drawing his bow more taunt. It wasn't until the man dropped to the ground that he realized the bang _had_ been audible.

_Shit._ Coulson would _not_ be happy about that. Hawkeye pointed his bow at the Black Widow, ready to loose his arrow. But, he didn't. Because he was puzzled. He hadn't yet taken careful note of what expression her face now held. However, as he watched her more closely, he instantly recognized it: Regret. What was a cold-hearted assassin doing feeling regret? Or feeling anything for that matter.

But the regret was gone in another heartbeat when the Black Widow smothered her feelings under a stone-cold mask. Hawkeye lowered his bow by mere inches, familiar with the tactic. How many times had he done the very same thing? The archer looked at the assassin more carefully as his mind reeled.

What had Coulson said? That she needs to be 'taken care of' because she's 'extremely dangerous'? Hawkeye shrugged, an action of reflex. "I can live with that," he said quietly.

The Black Widow, crouching to confirm the death of her victim, froze as the softly spoken words reached her ears.

In a snap decision, Clint Barton drew back his bow and let go of his arrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Nothing fancy to say this go-round. Thanks to my reviewers though ^-^ EscapeHollowFieldsClub and I were- *ahem* enthusiastic when we received them (._.) Hehehehe.**

**- Shadow**

* * *

The arrow flew past the Black Widow's head, parting the air with a muffled whistle until it embedded itself in the cracked wall behind her. Clint didn't wait for her to react. As soon as the arrow left his hold, the archer slung his bow over his shoulder and leapt off the building. He landed on a fire escape, flipped over the railing and dropped to the ground. Five feet away, the Black Widow had her gun aimed at his head. This was going better than he had expected.

"Хорошие движения, для покойника," she snarled smoothly, her tone as level as her weapon. (_Nice moves, for a dead man._)

Clint slowly raised his hand above his head to show that he had no ready attack while, silently, he cursed himself. She was a Russian spy. Why did he assume she would understand him?

"Do you speak English?" he asked out loud. If she didn't, this would be hard. He hadn't taken the initiative to learn anything past entry-level Russian.

The Black Widow's stance didn't waver. "Почему? Планирование разговаривать меня до смерти?"(_Why? Planning on talking me to death?_)

Clint tried again, in broken Russian. "Английский язык. Вы говорите по-английски?"(_English. Do you speak English?_)

"иногда," she said with narrowed eyes, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. "Но это не ваше дело." (_Sometimes,_) (_But that's none of your business._)

He recognized a bit of what she said, courtesy of the small amount of language training he _had_ received, but she was talking too fast for him to follow completely. However, the cheekily-spoke 'sometimes' stuck out.

"Can you speak in English _now_?" Clint took an extremely cautious step forward, his hands still raised. "I want to talk. Just talk."

The Black Widow tensed, a finger curling around the trigger of her pistol. Her body language told her adversary not to move another muscle, but something in her eyes, however briefly, sparked, Giving Clint the sign he had wanted. Regardless, her face was still empty of any emotion, even as her voice held contempt. "Вы, американцы, и ваше желание поговорить. У государства даже не знаю, как для надлежащей подготовки убийц больше?" (_You Americans and your wish to talk. Do the states not even know how to train proper assassins anymore?_)

"That's not English." In one swift movement Clint swung his leg up, kicking her gun from her hand. Just as the weapon clattered to the ground, a fist connected with his jaw, followed by a bare foot to the other side of his face. _That's going to leave a mark_, he thought as he stumbled backwards, regaining his balance. He rubbed the side of his jaw as he brought his gaze back to the Black Widow.

She was set into a defensive semi-crouch, her strappy high-heels abandoned to the side. She shifted her stance, edging closer to her weapon.

_This seems like a lot more trouble than it's worth. _Clint leapt forward, a fist balled and aiming for her face. The Black Widow slipped out of his way and around him, kicking out one of his knees from behind. Clint's legs buckled and he fell, turning it into a neatly executed forwards roll before bouncing back to his feet. The two assassins gazed at each other, eyes sharp and jaws set.

The Black Widow took to the offensive and lunged at Clint. He blocked the majority of her skillfully-aimed blows, landing a few of his own in the process. He wasn't aware that the steps backwards he was being forced to take were completely intentional until the blonde assassin dropped into a low crouch and fluidly swung a leg around to swipe his from underneath him. Lying on his back at the bottom of the alley, Clint summarized that she had pushed him back far enough to reach her gun; she was crouched over him, the pistol pressed to his neck.

A sluggish trickle of blood ran from the Black Widow's nose down her upper lip, and Clint was sure one of her punches had split open a bit of skin on his forehead, but they both ignored their minor injuries and glared at each other straight in the eyes.

"You won't kill me," Clint told her, his voice steady even though his breathing was mildly ragged.

"Да?" The Black Widow's eyes were as hard as flint. "What makes you so sure?" She pressed the gun harder against his throat. (_Yeah?_)

Clint hid his surprise at her almost accent-free English. "Because you're curious." He swallowed. "You want to know exactly _what_ I want to talk about."

There was a pause. "…And if I'm not?"

Clint flashed a smirk and glanced up at the wall above him. Lodged in a crack was a simple looking black arrow. The Black Widow made to follow his gaze, and that's when Clint made his move.

The archer pressed a nearly invisible button on one of his wrist guards with the thumb of his opposite hand. Almost instantly, a minor explosion went off above their heads. He bucked the assassin off of him as the alleyway began to fill with smoke.

Clint jumped to his feet. "Just because I didn't kill you tonight, doesn't mean someone else won't tomorrow," he called quietly through the haze, knowing that she could hear him. The barely-there sounds of the assassin collecting her weapon and shoes reached his ears. "I can offer you an out," he continued, his voice hard. "Not safety. A purpose."

With the bait dangling, Hawkeye exited the alley the way he had entered it. He didn't expect the Black Widow to follow him, nor did she. From the rooftop, he couldn't spot her anywhere. But the look he had seem ignite in her eyes was as familiar to him as the feel of his bow. She would find him, and maybe he wouldn't have to kill her.

Clint ran a hand across his stinging forehead. It came back coated with blood. "God damnit," he grumbled as he headed back to his hotel room via the rooftops. "She did split my head open."


	3. Chapter 3

**Yay, Chapter 3! (._.) It took a bit longer to write than originally planned, but... TUMBLR IS EVIL! (O_O) The Clintasha feels... I was suffocating in them T-T I cried hysterically. Twice. Because of a fanfiction. Mother thought I was insane ( -O) Maybe a 'lil...**  
**Anyway, enjoy! (^-^)**

**- Shadow**

**Disclaimer: Marvel owns pretty much 99.9% of everything here. Including my heart and undying allegiance. And maybe a lifetime of servitude.**

* * *

"You did _what_?"

Clint almost dropped his cell phone at Coulson's sharp words. He had it wedged between his ear and shoulder so his hands would be free to suture up the gash on his forehead. As it was, he pulled the stitch he was working on a little too tight.

"Ow! You know, a normal person would react this way if I _did_ kill someone."

Judging by the silence his handler wasn't amused. Clint tied off the last stitch and admired his handy work in the grubby hole-in-the-wall hotel mirror, trying to ignore the room's equally grubby hole-in-the-wall smell.

"You had one job, Barton. Find her and take her down."

"Technically sir, that's two jobs."

On the other end of the line, Coulson sighed. "Too much for you to handle?"

Clint put away his medical kit. "No sir." He ran a hand through his still shower-damp hair. "But I don't see why we've given up on her"

"Given up on her?" A note of confusion crept into Coulson's voice.

"Does she have any less of a right to a second chance?" he clarified, his tone purposely business-like.

The reply came in a clipped tone. "That's not your call, Barton."

"The hell it's not." Clint's words were level and emotionless, giving nothing away.

His handler's words began to sound text-book. "She is a level 10 threat. Only Director Fury can make that call."

"Then talk to the Director."

"That's more trouble than it's worth. You are border-line probation as it is Barton. You have your orders-"

"Isn't SHIELD supposed to be _saving_ lives?" Clint cut him off.

The weight of those words hung in the air. Clint stared at himself in the mirror, impatiently waiting for his handler's response. When it was obvious none was coming, he added, "She wouldn't be the first assassin SHIELD…" His tone had become bitter. Not towards the organization, nor Coulson. Maybe not even towards himself. "Reeducated." The word slid over his tongue, as sour as a lie.

The silence that followed was so thick that Clint began to think Coulson had dropped the call.

"Give me the day," his handler finally said in a quiet tone. "I'll take it up with the Director. Do not move from your position, Barton. Do not engage the target with either outcome in mind. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir," Clint responded.

"Good. Coulson out."

The line went dead, and Clint took that as his cue to attempt to get some sleep. There was nothing else he could do anyway, might as well rest when he was able. He snapped his phone shut and moved his bow and quiver to the bedside table.

Though he was certain the Black Widow would find him, it wouldn't be tonight. Or, rather, early this morning; the digital clock told him it was well past oh-two-hundred. He suspected the assassin was off collecting the bounty her latest kill had hanging over his successful murder.

As he got into the less-than-neatly made bed, Clint thought back to the time before SHIELD, when he had been living from hit to hit. It had been difficult. Rough. But looking back now, he could only remember the uncertainty and the guilt. Not knowing if the guy he was taking out actually deserved it, but doing the job anyways.

Clint looked at his hands in the dark, imagining them dripping with the blood of all the innocents he'd killed. But the nightmares had lessened since he joined SHIELD. They only asked from him the deaths of those who truly deserved it. If he could save someone who didn't, give them the second chance, the purpose, that he had been given, he would make that call.

.:.:.:.

"To Black Widow, tak brzy?" (_The Black Widow, back so soon?_)

The assassin shouldered off the two guards who escorted her in. "Já vím lépe," she purred in fluent Czech as she boldly faced the man who had hired her, "než aby člověk jako vy čekat." (_I know better, than to keep a man such as yourself waiting._) She pulled a paper-wrapped object out of one of the back pockets of her jeans and set it on the table in front of him.

Kašpar laughed harshly, carefully unwrapping the prize. "Když jste byli doporučuje pro práci. měl jsem pochybnosti, ale zdá se, že znáte obchod docela dobře." (_When you were recommended for the job, I had my doubts, but it seems you know the trade quite well._) He held up the thick gold chain with two fingers, the charm on the end glittering in the faint light. "Doufám, že jste neměl ne problémy." (_I trust you had no problems._)

The blonde's fingers twitched, itching to touch the butt of the pistol she had tucked in her jeans. But she stood still, showing off a cocky smile."Nic, co bych nezvládl." (_Nothing I couldn't handle._)

"Dobrý." (_Good._) He motioned to his thugs. The taller one slid an envelope out of his coat and handed it to his boss, who held it out to the Black Widow. "Vaše platba." (_Your payment._)

Opening the envelope, she growled. "To je sotva polovina toho, co jsi mi slíbil." (_This is barely half of what you promised._)

Kašpar looked at her, his eyes glittering with cold malice. "Věci se mění. Jakmile je taková jako jste vy musí vědět, že." (_Things change. Once such as yourself must know that._)

The assassin held his gaze, allowing her irritation to show through only as a tight smirk. "Samozřejmě, Kašpar." (_Of course, Kašpar._) He was not going to get away with this.

.:.:.:.

It wasn't until the sun reached its highest point in the sky that Clint woke up. He slid easily out of sleep, the product of years of practice and habit. He sat up, yawned, and stretched before remembering he was 'grounded' in almost every sense of the word. He lay back heavily, grunting as his head hit the pillow.

The archer knew he was being 'punished' because SHIELD didn't like anyone screwing up their plans. He _should_ know, he's done it enough. However, a small part of him felt like his punishment was for trying to save a life. But that was absurd. His suspicions about the organization had always been unfounded and eventually proven wrong. Maybe it was time he started listening to them.

Still… that didn't seem appropriate with the current situation. His instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion. Why couldn't they help someone else now?

Clint sat up once again, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "They can't stop me from getting breakfast," he said out loud. "Or lunch," he tacked on as an afterthought with a glance at the clock. If Coulson really expected him to hang around his hotel room all day he was nuts.

The archer got up and shuffled through his duffel, pulling out a gray t-shirt and jeans. He couldn't exactly walk around the streets of Prague in his SHEILD uniform in broad daylight.

Civilian clothes on, Clint slipped a pistol into his belt and covered it with his shirt. His bow would be a bit ostentatious and bulky. No hiding it. If only he could get one that could fold down. A collapsible bow. Wouldn't that be the cat's pajamas?

With a shake of his head he grabbed his wallet, which held a fake passport, fake id, and some money, and headed out the door.

His meal took the form of spicy goulash and a pint of beer as Clint himself undertook the role of an unassuming tourist. The restaurant he picked was an authentic Czech joint called U Vejvodů. It wasn't far from the Old Town Square and the Market Place where he was headed.

Coulson had ordered him not to engage the Black Widow, but he had said nothing about not making it easier for her to engage _him_. And he figured the Old Town Market was public enough to convince either of them to not make too much of a scene.

He wasn't expecting her to pop up out of nowhere and ask questions, but it wasn't until he was standing up to leave that anything of interest caught his eye. He had been people-watching and scoping out the place throughout his meal, but had somehow overlooked the slender, wavy-haired blonde sitting almost in the center of the restaurant. But perhaps that had been exactly how he had missed her. He had expected her, whenever he saw her, to be sitting at the edge of the room, back against a wall. It was safer.

Apparently, though, that's exactly what she had expected him to think.

_Hiding in plain sight,_ Clint thought grudgingly. _Clever._

He didn't let his gaze rest on her for any span of time, not wanting the assassin to realize she had been spotted. Instead he kept her form in his peripherals, nodded his head to the hostess, and handed the waiter a tip. The blur that was the Black Widow got up as he walked out the door.

.:.:.:.

There. He saw her. He gave no visible signs, but his eyes had trailed over her position for the briefest of moments. Any good mercenary would have instantly spotted and memorized every one of the faces in the place. And now he saw her. And, if her instincts were correct, which they usually were, her position would have thrown him off of any possibility that she _wanted_ him to know she was there.

Which was exactly what she was doing.

If he knew she was there, he would underestimate her abilities. He would be lulled into a false sense of security by her ever-present presence. He would eventually approach her, and then assume that he was calling the shots. That _he_ had the leading role in the conversation that was unavoidable. Inevitable. The conversation that she almost wanted to have.

The Black Widow cursed herself as she got up to follow him. She was _curious_. God damn _him_, and his speaking of 'out's. She wondered, not for the first time, why he had to be such an incompetent assassin and couldn't just do his job and kill her. Because death would be better than this burning curiosity. She hated _wanting_ to know something almost as much as she hated _not_ knowing something. Something like this.

The 'what'.

The 'how'.

The 'why'.

Dear God, especially the '_why_'. She wasn't supposed to care about the '_why_'.

He had driven her to the lowest of lows, _spying. Eavesdropping. _Like a child. But she had patience, if very little. She would come to know eventually. He spoke to her like she had a future to contemplate. She wanted details, but asking would be foolishly playing into his hands.

So she would wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**My god, it's been a while, hasn't it? Don't kill me (._.) I won't take up time by talking. Onto the story, hm?**

**- Shadow**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers, blah blah blah.**

* * *

The Old Town market was almost exactly like he remembered from his last mission in Prague. Open, loud, and, even in the off season of summer, very busy.

The market stalls that lined the wide street had both exotic and native good to be sold. Clint browsed through the crowd, his eyes sharp for everything. Threats, escape routes, potential weapons, and-

_Her._

The Black Widow stood across the street and six stalls down, listening to a man trying to sell her an elegant beaded necklace. Even from this distance, if not especially from this distance, Clint could see that his pitch was delivered with a flare that would have sold the necklace to anyone. Anyone that was paying attention, that is.

Clint watched her decline the man's offer and melt into the crowd after sweeping her gaze around. Her eyes didn't land on him, but that didn't mean he hadn't been seen.

Regardless, she had been looking for him. Just like he knew she would. But why was she being so… sloppy? A Level 10 assassin should know how to conceal herself from anyone.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loudly spat foreign curse. The archer turned around, bringing himself face-to-face with a grizzled old woman covered in gauzy scarves.

"You plan on staring at that woman all day or are you going to talk to her?" Her English was broken, but understandable. She was obviously used to tourists. "Better yet," she added, "you buy rug!" She pointed around the stall and Clint followed with his gaze to the multitude of colourful shag rugs hanging from the counter and ceiling.

"It's complicated," he told her, letting an easy smile slide onto his face. "And I don't need a rug. No house to put it in."

The gray-haired woman shook her head. "You take rug. Good for many things."

The skepticism Clint shot her was genuine. "Like what?"

"Conversation starter," the elder lady told him. "Talk of rugs is not complicated." She shoved a three foot long rolled up rug into his arms.

Clint rolled his eyes but fished out enough money to pay for it, thinking it easier to buy the thing than argue with the woman.

_And my apartment could use a bit of colour,_ he told himself sarcastically, thinking of his SHIELD- standard living quarters back at base.

Walking away from the old woman and her rugs, Clint wondered why he couldn't have stopped beside the knife stall across the street instead. With a scowl, he hoisted the rug up onto one of his shoulders.

_At least it hadn't been anything completely left field,_ he mused, l_ike a goat stall or something._

.:.:.:.

Over the course of the next four hours, Clint spotted the Black Widow through the crowd multiple times in various places.

First she was at the knife stall he had been admiring, paying particularly close attention to a rather sadistic-looking number with a serrated edge. Small, but obviously deadly. Somehow he wasn't surprised.

Then he saw her again exchanging money for a sugary pastry of some sort at a baker's stand. He briefly wondered if it was a convenience buy or if the Black Widow had a sweet tooth.

Thirty minutes after that she was tying up her hair with a strip of decorative cloth, talking with the lady selling them. She was playing the part of a tourist perfectly. But her smile was fake. It didn't quite look genuine to someone who was as used to lying as he was.

Each time Clint saw her, the Black Widow would only take a few seconds to realize she was being watched. She would turn and cast him a defiant, daring glare before disappearing. He had half a mind to go after her, but restrained himself from doing so. He was already in the doghouse, and breaking orders again would only fuel the fire he was sure the Director was preparing to cook him in.

.:.:.:.

Twilight was fast approaching. Ducking into a run-down building that brandished a sign claiming it to be a bar, the Black Widow pulled at the scrap of cloth securing her up-do. Her movements were jerky and agitated. She scratched her fingertips against her scalp, shaking out her long blonde hair, missing its natural colour as she made her way over to a barstool at the counter.

Turning her thoughts to the failed American assassin, she silently fumed. That arrogant jackass hadn't made one move towards her all afternoon. She had given him plenty of opportunities to approach her, but he took none of them. She loathed to admit that curiosity was burning her insides, but it wouldn't make it less true. And she hated herself for it.

She grumbled quietly in Russian and ordered a shot of vodka. When the bartender set it in front of her, she didn't drink it. She stared down into the liquid instead as her mind raced with various thoughts.

.:.:.:.

The first thing Clint noticed was that an hour had gone by in which he hadn't seen the Black Widow. Though the daylight was fading, the archer had no problem seeing as he scanned the people around him. But the assassin's face was not one of the ones he saw.

The second thing he noticed was that the daylight _was_ fading and Coulson hadn't called him back yet. He didn't doubt that his handler would eventually call him back, but he wanted to act before the Black Widow decided to disappear for good. If she hadn't already. He had to hope that either self-preservation or simple curiosity would keep her around for a little while longer.

Clint put a bit of distance between himself and the crowded marketplace, stopping in an alley a few blocks away. Crouched next to his rolled up rug, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, somewhat impatiently debating whether or not to call Coulson. He was about to put it back when the cell began to quietly ring in his hands.

He flipped it open and hit the call button before bringing the device up to his ear. "Barton," he said curtly in way of answering the call, thinking to himself something along the lines of _finally_.

But it wasn't his handler's voice on the other end.

"Do you _enjoy_ messing up my plans, Barton?" came the unmistakable deep rumble of Nick Fury. "Do you think that you know better than your superiors? Than _me_?"

He wanted to say 'Yes, he did know better than them' because sometimes he did. But Clint didn't think that bit of information would help him much in his current situation. So he opted with, "Not exactly, sir. I just think this mission needs a bit more background before any action is taken. Her file was practically empty."

The Director sighed heavily on the other end of the line. "You were sent there to take out a threat. Not to think. Your orders-"

"My orders were to take out the Black Widow," Clint interrupted. "Not a woman who is scared for her life and guilty over the ones she is forced to take."

"Are you saying you refuse to carry out what you've been told to do?"

"I'm saying, Director, with all due respect, that I joined SHIELD to save lives. If I take her out, how will I be any better than I was before?"

A tense pause stretched between them.

"You'll be better because your marks now have a pattern and a purpose," Fury eventually said in a tone that implied this was over. "An extraction team is scheduled to arrive at the designated pickup point tomorrow at 1400. See that you don't miss them."

"Rodger," Clint spat out through clenched teeth.

"Fury, out."

The line went dead in his ear, but it was a few seconds before he moved. It didn't take long for the internal struggle he was going through to come to a head. He may pay for it later, but there'd be one less name that would belong to the blood on his hands.

Clint closed his phone and stuffed it in his pocket as he made to stand up, when a gruff voice made its owner's presence known farther behind him.

"Mluvil jste o Black Widow." (_You spoke about the Black Widow_)

Clint turned around. The voice belonged to one of two muscled men approaching him from the darker end of the alley. They were both glowering, ripped, and obviously spoiling for a fight.

"You spoke about the Black Widow," the man repeated in English. The hidden threat was very obviously there.

Clint grimaced. This looked like it was going to be fun. "Very good observation," he baited, not giving anything away. If these men worked with her, they would give him a hard time to get him off her trail. If they were hunting for her, well, he wasn't going to help anyone kill the woman he was trying to save.

"Kašpar would rather you stay out of his business. He wants the Black Widow, and he sent us for her. There's no room for you to interfere." The second guy cracked his knuckles as the one who spoke fingered a pistol sticking in the waistband of his pants.

_Well,_ Clint told himself, entering the game of intimidation and revealing his gun to the men as well, _they most definitely aren't working _with_ her._

"What does Kašpar want with the Black Widow?" he inquired.

"That's none of your business, street filth," the guy snapped gruffly.

"Then your use to me is done," Clint growled.

The guy pulled his gun, but Clint was faster. A shot rang out. There was a brief moment where he wasn't sure who's weapon had caused it, but it was over when his opponent's pistol clattered to the ground. The man clutched his hand as blood oozed between his fingers. The situation turned chaotic from there.

The guys were taller than him, and therefore had the advantage of strength. But Clint still had his gun.

He assumed that realization must have hit them at the same moment, because the second guy leapt forward, attempting to wrestle the weapon out of his hands.

Clint brought the gun up, whacking the guy on his jaw, but not before the thug could get a punch landed squarely on his own.

That was going to leave a mark.

The guy stumbled into his partner, who pushed him away and ignored his mangled hand to take his turn in going after Clint. Except he didn't.

The thug dove past the archer, who realized at the last minute that he was aiming for his lost pistol.

Two men ducked and rolled, attempting to stay out of the other's way.

Two shots rang out, pistols humming as the bullets buried themselves in flesh and muscle.

Two bodies hit the ground, each emitting a pained grunt before becoming still.

* * *

**I leave you for what seems like ever, then I come back with a cliffhanger like _that_?! Please don't kill me.  
**

**But I would love it if you reviewed. Not that I deserve any reviews for abandoning you like I did (._.) **

**The next Chapter should seriously be up soon, though. I already have it half written. Be it the last half... but still.**


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